


Human

by write_for_your_life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, I promise, It's sickening honestly, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, One Shot, SO, There's gonna be a sequel soon though, They're just so in love, This was written with a stranger on the internet, enjoy that I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 19:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15103883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_for_your_life/pseuds/write_for_your_life
Summary: John Watson is fed up with keeping it all a secret.Sherlock Holmes is fed up with John not getting his shit together.They're both really bad at communicating.Chaos ensues.





	Human

**Author's Note:**

> I met a stranger on the internet (don't give me that look) and together, we made this little gem over email at 1 a.m.   
> I asked what she/he/they (I don't actually know, sorry) wanted to be called when I was giving them credits - their reply was "random guy on the internet".  
> Each lump of text was written by alternating people, so enjoy a strange mix of writing styles.  
> Enjoy!

Sherlock, where are you? I just got home from work but you're not in the flat, and Mrs. Hudson says she hasn't seen you leave all day. -JW

Roof. SH

Why? What happened?? Are you alright??? -JW

Everything's fine. Just needed some air. SH

Sherlock, it's pouring. -JW

And this is relevant because… SH

You'll get hypothermia. Come in. -JW

[Delay] Fine. SH

Sherlock climbed inside the window, flicking hair from his curls. He knew he wouldn't clean up the puddle on the floor, but he'd tell John he would. Strutting into the living room, Sherlock turned and swooshed onto the sofa. “Hello, John.”

“Hey, Sherlock. You don't look too good - have you eaten today?” John clicked off his cell and set it onto the table, looking up at the sopping detective.

“What? No. Eating’s boring.”

John popped two pieces of bread into the toaster, planning to force-feed the detective if he must. Sherlock's dramatic swoosh onto the sofa had not gone unnoticed - neither had the wet shirt that clang to Sherlock's chest.   
John cleared his throat and stared at the toaster.  
"You should probably change." Pause. "Wet clothes increase the risk of hypothermia."

"Hush. I've not been out of the flat in days, and shivering a bit just burns a few calories, calm yourself John." Sherlock said snippily, turning onto his side so that water still caught in his curls dripped onto the floor instead of the couch. The drenched shirt and briefs clung to him like a sheen, accenting every sharp angle of his form so languidly draped on the couch. "Can you make that toast outside?" He asked, somehow seeming serious with the ludicrous question. "It's giving me a headache."

"Sure thing, let me just carry this electrical item outside in the pouring rain. Sounds like a fantastic idea, Sherlock." John retorted. He clenched his fingers on the edge of the kitchen counter, using every bit of self control he had not to stare at the cat-like form across the room.   
Sherlock had his mysteries to keep him happy; John had Sherlock himself. The man was a puzzle of his own, and John wanted - no, _needed_ \- to solve it. Each new discovery about his flatmate intrigued him more, drawing him closer like a moth to a flame.  
The toast was burning.  
John didn't notice.

Sherlock sat up, his curls flopping back across his forehead. He looked displeased, and all together detached from the situation. "John. Either i'm having a stroke, or your toast is burning." He said dryly, clambering over the back of the couch and sitting pertly with one leg crossed over the other, the very picture of annoyance painted in rainwater and shadowed angles. "You're trying to be distracted. What's wrong with you?" He asked obliviously, somehow seeing everything about the room except what was staring him in the face. The detective exhaled, brushing his hair back for the tenth time. It clearly wasn't going to stay, and he clearly didn't care.

John snapped out of his trance and dove towards the toaster, the appliance spitting out two charred pieces of would-be toast into his hands. Cringing slightly, he tossed the bread onto a napkin. John figured the birds would appreciate the food, even if it was a bit ruined.  
"No shit, Sherlock." John replied sarcastically, looking up at him.   
His breath caught in his throat.  
How the hell could someone's hair look that good after a thunderstorm? John felt the blood creep up the back of his neck. _What am I, a giddy schoolgirl?_ He scolded himself, trying to keep the blush at bay.

The frantic movements and flushed skin didn't go unnoticed. That was the type of thing Sherlock was tuned into, physical cues. He wasn't an ignorant man, but when it came to other people's emotions, especially involving attraction, he was rather lacking.  
He hopped off the couch, rushing over and hastily shoving his hand against John's forehead, staring at him with a mix of annoyance and concern. "Are you sick? You look frenzied, and you seem to be running a low fever." He noted intuitively, continuing to study his flatmate as if he were a specimen under a microscope. Sherlock looked at things based on signs and facts, not based on emotions. Emotions only got involved when they were called for, and at the moment he was simply concerned that John might be coming down with something.  
A bit too concerned one might say.

John jumped away from Sherlock's hand, refusing to make eye contact. "I'm fine, really, I must have just - caught a cold or something. It's fine." The last thing he needed right now was increased proximity with his flatmate, especially not physical contact.  
It was strange, really; Sherlock was able to deduce John's life by glancing at him the first time they met, but he somehow couldn't realize the obvious. John attributed the lack of emotional intelligence to growing up with Mycroft as a child.  
"And since when are you worried about my health, anyway? I am a doctor, Sherlock. I can take care of myself." He quickly changed the subject and backed away, busying himself by organizing unpaid bills on the table.

When an issue is stemmed from an action, continue that action until you know the reason for the issue. Sherlock used that methodology a lot, and he wasn't about to stop using it now. He circled back around, placing himself in the way of properly getting to the bills and crossing his arms of his chest. "Doctors often forget their own needs in place of the needs of their patients. Just let me see what's wrong with you- stop running off." He insisted, shoving the back of his hand against the side of John's neck, seeking his pulse incessantly.   
"You're not normally so - hesitant. You're change in demeanor is concerning." Sherlock said bluntly, as he was apt to do.

When an issue is stemmed from an action, stop the action and leave the issue the hell alone until it eats you from the inside out and you feel like you're about to explode. John used that methodology a lot, and he wasn't about to stop using it now.  
"You're the one we should be worried about; I mean, look at you, you're drenched!" John flipped the subject back to Sherlock in a vain attempt to defend his secret, and shimmied his way out if the detective's grip. He didn't need Sherlock to feel the increased heart rate along with all the other signs of attraction too; even with no emotional intelligence whatsoever, the deduction wouldn't be a difficult leap.

"I'm fine. You know I am. This is just how I exist, constantly putting myself in harms way for the sake of intrigue, boredom, or further knowledge." Sherlock said firmly, as if those were facts he expected the average person to have on the back of their hand. He gave a frustrated huffy sigh, and stepped aside, letting his hands raise and then fall back to his sides. "You know what, fine. Let whatever is wrong with you progress until you can't handle it, then maybe you'll ask for help, god only knows."   
Sherlock shook his head exasperatedly, flinging water droplets off as he went. He then turned towards the hall, walking towards the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower. When I get back, I'd love it if you had a bit of your shit sorted out." The detective peeled off his soaked button down, veering off into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Sighing frustratedly, John sank down to the floor with his face in his hands. Why did he have to screw everything up?  
John opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.  
He stared at the bathroom door for a bit longer, then pulled himself up and strolled into the sitting room. He looked quickly at Sherlock's empty chair, back at the bathroom door again, and back towards the chair.  
John would say that he started questioning his sexuality a year ago, but if he were to be honest with himself, he always knew. From friendships with male classmates that he wished were something a bit more to subdued crushes on fellow soldiers, John Watson had been bisexual for as long as he could remember. But after seeing his parents' reactions to Harry's coming out, John decided that as long as he liked women in some regard, he could ignore the other half and move on.  
Until, of course, he fell in love with his flatmate. Terribly bad circumstances, if you asked him.  
He was so tired of keeping this goddam secret. So, so tired.  
"Fuck this."

Sherlock didn't get out much, not in the typical human sense. 90% of his interactions were through cases if not just with John, and the other 10% were at the grocers or the press. He preferred it that way, menial small talk disgusted him, and the general public seemed to have an obsession with it. That was why this blockade with John was so frustrating, normally the ex soldier just seemed to say things, now there was something in the way, and he didn't know how to get around it.  
He had made it a pattern to have good hygiene since he'd gotten sober, always doing things in the same order at the same time of day with only a few exceptions. Sherlock didn't think about connotations for himself, nor did he care. He washed up with a different floral or berry-ish soap simply because it was what was nice to him, not bothering with any other subtext. He stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist and returning to the kitchen to put on the kettle so it would be ready once he was dressed. "Gotten anything sorted out yet John?" He asked coyly, not bothering to turn around.

Now was his chance.  
Sherlock was just out of the shower, and not even clothed, so there was nowhere for him to run from the conversation. Adrenaline was still running through John's veins from the thought of saying it out loud. He either said it now, or he never said it at all.  
"Got anything sorted out yet John?" Sherlock asked, not facing him.  
 _Deep breaths_ he thought, almost becoming dizzy with nerves. _Say it now, Watson. Get it over with. Say. It. N-_  
"I'm bisexual."   
Pause.  
"And really, _really_ in love with you."

The kettle collided with one of the coiled burners with a bang, knocking on of Sherlock's vials over that was thankfully empty, but broke against the floor. He stayed paused, muscles visibly tensed as if there were a tripwire within dangerous proximity that breathing could set off. He didn't even seem to notice the hot, and luckily not boiling water that splashed across his hands, sizzling on the stove. For an uncomfortably long moment, the only sound was that of rain attacking the window from outside, and the kettle beginning to whine.  
Sherlock turned, not even the ghost of a smirk gracing his face, he looked, for once, just present in the moment.  
"Well, i'm gay. But everyone already assumes it, so I doubt that's a shock..." He murmured uncomfortably, shifting his gaze off to the side.   
"And you're _not_ in love with me, or at least you shouldn't be. Trust me on this one..."

Of all the responses John anticipated, of every situation he had imagined over and over again, this was not one of them.  
He had hoped Sherlock was gay, and the evidence had seemed to support his theory. Mrs. Hudson, Angelo, and Mycroft had all made vague references to Sherlock's homosexuality the day after John met him, but he couldn't be sure. After all, Sherlock Holmes was not known for his predictability.  
The next sentence, though, was the one John was having trouble with.  
"And you're _not_ in love with me, or at least you shouldn't be. Trust me on this one..."  
A moment of silence stretched between the two broken men. There was so much space between them, now. There were years of it.  
Years of secrets, and hiding, and sneaking looks at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking. Years of pressure building up, years of it all crashing down.  
Years of heartbreak, years of tears.  
Too many years for John Hamish Watson to be convinced that what he felt wasn't real.  
"I don't."  
"Sorry?"  
"I don't 'trust you on this one'. You're so set on removing yourself from human emotion that you don't even consider how someone could feel anything for you. I know how I feel, Sherlock. Don't try to tell me that I don't."

Sherlock grimaced, kneeling down to pick up the pieces of the test vial, carefully resting them on the palm of his hand and then settling them in the bin. When he turned back, his expression was almost sad, or at least a version of sad that was manageable for him in the moment.   
"I highly doubt that to be true. You love the idea of me, not the reality."   
He paused for another agonizing moment, the kettle whining enough that he took it off the heat and set it aside.  
"But I suppose it's up to you to learn that for yourself; and after years of pining after you myself, it would be rather irresponsible for me to turn you down now." He stated logically. Always with the logic, never with feelings in the way, that was how he worked, how he functioned.  
However, pining after you, that sounded strikingly human.  
Sherlock gritted his teeth slightly, steeling himself for a moment of rare empathy that likely wouldn't rear its ugly head for a while after, and crossed the room to where John stood, looking so dejected and woeful. He reached forward and took his bloggers hands, both of them, giving them a tight squeeze and momentarily meeting his gaze.   
"You could've told me sooner. I would never of judged you for it." He said earnestly.

John furrowed his brows and took a step back, removing his hands from Sherlock's grip. "'It'd be irresponsible to turn me down?' What's that even supposed to mean?" He blinked a few times, trying to comprehend anything behind the words. "I don't want you if you only reciprocate because it's logical. I want you to... I don't know, feel something. Show that you're human, for once!"  
John froze, aware he crossed a line he wasn't sure was there in the first place.

A tension hung in the air that was unlike before, this one was tangibly thick, the sort that made you unsure if you could still breathe or not. Sherlock stood dead still for several seconds, his hands still hovering where they had been, not even a blink to signify that he was still there. Then the detective let his hands fall, turning slightly away, his expression morphing back to one of complete blankness. "I told you that I pined after you, I properly came out to you, I told you I would never judge you for who you are. And yet, all you heard was the one piece that doesn't fit your ideal of 'loving normalcy'."   
Sherlock exhaled a pained breath, turning towards his door and walking down the hallway a few steps. "I told you. You don't love me, you love who you wish I was." He said, walking into his room and closing the door behind him.

Fuck.  
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.  
This was not supposed to happen.  
How could John have fucked up this badly?  
"That's not what I m-" John's apology/excuse was greeted by a slammed door, which, he assumed, was deserved.  
Fuck.  
John exhaled slowly, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Spinning on his heels, he turned back around to face the empty kitchen.  
How could he convince Sherlock that he _did_ love him? John knew Sherlock could be frustrating, and strange, and non human like, but he stayed. For better or for worse, he stayed.   
But, of course, he didn't say so when it actually mattered.  
Glancing up from the ground, John saw his laptop sitting innocently on the table across the room. He hadn't updated his blog in quite a whi-  
A light bulb flashed above John's head.  
He had an idea.

It hurt, not that Sherlock would let it show.  
He was excellent at keeping things contained, at least until the door was closed. He sat down on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his palms and letting the hurt of it all out for 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, seconds. That was enough. He let his hands fall, dragging in a long breath and letting it out.   
It wasn't fair, not fair that he could do his best to be the person that would be desired by the one person he cared for, not fair that he couldn't just act like a fucking normal person, it wasn't fair.  
Then again, very little was ever fair. It wasn't a shock. Just a disappointment.  
The detective stood up, changing into clean clothes, just a shirt and briefs, sage colored briefs to be specific. He returned to his bed, pulling the top blanket around him in the closest semblance of a tight hug he could hope for. It was yet another tradition he had fallen upon for comfort, yet another thing he would never admit.   
Sherlock took his phone off the bed stand, opening up the news, hoping for a case, a murder, a kidnapping, anything that would be a distraction.

John sat at the coffee table, typing away furiously at the keyboard. Words spilled out of him, now. Great timing.  
He figured the way to go about fixing things could be simple, if he had the guts to do it. John remembered each time he had worried about how people thought of him, and, by association, of Sherlock. How many times had he said "people will talk"? God, how annoying he must have been.  
The plan was this: John would wait for Sherlock to steal his laptop (as he so often did) for research. He'd leave the blog screen open, which would practically beg a read from Sherlock. This way, John wouldn't actually need to say anything out loud. That method seemed to have its downfalls.  
Finishing the final sentence, John clicked "Publish" before allowing himself to think too hard about it. Shimmying on his raincoat, John looked at the title one last time.  
"I'm in Love with Sherlock Holmes"  
He left the flat with both hands shaking.

Sherlock heard the door close with a click. He figured John had left to get some air, possibly to just get as far away from him as possible until they could just go one pretending nothing was wrong. He waited a few more minutes before walking back out into the living room, once again in search of either a cup of tea or a shot of brandy, whichever crossed his path first. However, it was the patterned border of John's blog on the computer, somehow it taunted him. All of those retellings of their cases, the good, bad, and occasionally bitter moments.   
He slowly sat down, tilting the screen up to properly read it, his eyes quickly scanning the title of the new post, then the rest of its contents.   
His first reaction was excitement, a quickly pounding heart, a sudden shortness of breath.  
Then concern. There was no hiding anything. Everyone would know. The post had been up for what, ten minutes? That was more than enough time for it to be copied, pasted, and shared, across the media. There was no taking it back.   
Then again, there would be no more what will people say or we don't want to give the wrong impression. Phrases that had stabbed right through the detectives somehow existent heart each time they were said.   
John couldn't of been gone for what, five minutes? Sherlock leaped up off the couch, managing to grab his trench coat but nothing else, and running down the stairs onto the rainy street below, looking quickly each way to see if John was still in sight.

John felt his cell vibrate against his leg, undoubtedly with texts from Harry, Lestrade, possibly even Mycroft. The notifications were a constant reminder of what he had done, and the irreversibility of the action.  
He didn't look at the screen.  
The remaining drizzle of rain leftover from the storm silenced the quiet murmur of empty streets and split on impact with dirty windows into tinier, hard droplets of water that beat a tender song on passing heads. London was hushed, today.   
Hushed, that is, until John turned at the sound of sprinting footsteps and saw a certain consulting detective, clad in a coat, t-shirt, and briefs, running right towards him.  
"Sherlock!"

The wet pavement proved to be a bit of a slick surface to run on, particularly barefoot as Sherlock had quickly realized (then promptly disregarded) he was. Somehow he managed to stumble to a halt just a few dozen inches away from John, panting for breath, trying to get his lungs to catch up with the words he wanted to say, and then his mouth to catch up with his brain. The intelligent ramblings didn't come out as planned.  
"John! You fucking imbecile! What the hell were you thinking!"  
The detective then quickly brought his hands up to cup the sides of John's face, and pulled him into a hurried and altogether desperate kiss.   
Reopened pain wasn't pleasant, but it couldn't bury the endless months that Sherlock had spent longing for reality to shift in his favour.   
It couldn't erase the sleepless nights hoping that John wasn't out falling in love with someone else.  
It couldn't change the fact that everything from now on would be different, and hopefully better.  
Sherlock pulled away, his face flushed a shade of pink, his coat already soaked through.

It wasn't that John was an inexperienced kisser, exactly. In fact, many would say he was quite the opposite. So, in theory, one may assume that he'd know what to say afterwards, instead of just standing there and gawking like an idiot.  
That assumption would be wrong.  
Because, the thing is, John had kissed many people, but he had never kissed someone like Sherlock. He had never kissed someone he was so devoted to. He had never kissed someone who made him feel like the universe was secondary to him. He had never kissed someone who harnessed galaxies in his eyes, who stole the stars from the sky an didn't even realize.  
John had never kissed someone he was so in love with.  
It was a solid six seconds for John to finally comprehend everything that had just happened, and it took even longer for him to force some kind of sound from his throat.  
"Wow."

Sherlock realized he should probably let go of John, so he did, taking a half step back and biting his lower lip, glancing down at the pavement between them and wrapping his arms around himself. It was less than warm out.   
"I wish you'd just said it to me instead... And - I'm not happy about the 'show that you're human' bit. But I do forgive you, and I want to be your boyfriend if you'll still have me."  
The words were so earnest it nearly stung, Sherlock couldn't pull his gaze off the pavement, his careful work to make himself look presentable already ruined once again, rain streaking his face and soaking his clothes.   
Even now, he still approached the situation with logic and reason, calculating each word to direct towards a mutually ideal destination; but he would always do that. It was simply who he was, it didn't mean he didn't care.

John reached forward to grab Sherlock's hands, meeting his eyes. "I know I should have just told you, but... well. Conversation is not exactly my strong suit." Pause. "And, I know it doesn't change what I said, but I am really sorry for that 'human' comment. I just - sometimes it's hard for me to understand how you can be so logical all the time. I mean, I just _look_ at you and I can barely speak."  
A few content moments of silence passed between the two.  
"By the way," John began. "Of course I'll still have you, Sherlock. I always will."

It had cooled down since Sherlock last spent time out in the rain, and he was starting to shiver quite a lot, most of his lanky form unprotected by the soaked jacket. It had been enough time that someone must've seen, someone who cared enough to spread it around after the blog post went up. He wasn't thinking about that at the moment though.  
He met John's gaze, a coy smile playing at the corners of his lips.  
"Then kiss me again and prove it." He said firmly, his definitely not an instruction, much more of a spoken hope or a request.   
There was so much that didn't matter now. So much empty space that could finally not feel so empty anymore.

John grinned, pulling Sherlock closer by the waist. "It'd be my pleasure... as soon as we get you inside. Your lips are blue, Sherlock, this isn't healthy. And really? No trousers? Socks, even?" Despite his genuine concern for his flatmate's - no, boyfriend's - health, John couldn't stop smiling. He presumed that doing so would probably make Sherlock not take him very seriously, but he couldn't be made to care.  
Nothing else mattered, at the moment. Not the consistent buzzing in his pocket, or the strangers staring from across the street. For once, John actually wanted people to talk. He wanted everyone to know. He had a strange urge to shout it all from the rooftops, to spread the word in any way he could.   
John had a feeling he wouldn't be able to stop smiling for quite some time.

Sherlock glanced down at his legs, quite trouser-less as pointed out. He hadn't even quite registered what was happening when he dashed for the door, the only reason he'd gotten the coat was out of habit really. Even now, his brain was a few minutes behind his body, not even feeling the cold even as his frame shivered in the London rain. He felt electric from the inside out, there was no such thing as cold.  
"Oh, that. Yes." He noted, sounding a bit confused.  
Sherlock turned back towards the flat, catching himself mid step. Just walking in alone after that was not the 'human', or 'romantic' thing to do. He wanted to be those things for John, or at least of a version of them that was still him.   
He stopped, turning back and taking the others hands, lacing their fingers together, his cold and willowy, John's warm the way they always seemed to be, and walking back towards the flat.


End file.
